


a quiet island

by natlet



Series: please do not let me go [5]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7391620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The Walrus</em> returns to Nassau.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a quiet island

Getting the men returned to the ship is, as usual, a far more lengthy undertaking than seeing them off had been. John returns to the beach early the next morning, shares a longboat back from the Walrus with Howell; the doctor having cleared them to depart, Flint had seemed understandably anxious to see them underway again. They'd missed their rendezvous with Teach's fleet, but perhaps he'd decided to wait on them for a few days - and even if he hadn't, there'd be news from Billy, and hopefully new shipmates to welcome onboard. They have, in John's opinion, plenty of reasons to make haste for Nassau - it's an opinion, however, that the crew doesn't seem to share. He would almost be willing to swear they've made more progress this morning on the massive hole they've spent the week digging as a diversion on the far end of the camp than they have toward breaking down the tents. 

Even Flint's appearance on the beach doesn't seem to do much to encourage them; he isn't expected, but John isn't exactly surprised to see him, either, and it seems the men share the sentiment. His arrival generates little excitement, at least that John sees, and in spite of Flint's efforts - John is halfway across the camp and he can still hear Flint's voice, loud and firm, demanding they be back on board the ship within the hour. Privately, he can't exactly blame the men for mostly ignoring him - it'll take at least two, no matter how much Flint wants to yell - but to the crew, that should be beside the point. He is still their captain.

John gathers up an armload of bundled canvas, makes his way across the beach toward the launches - toward Flint as well, though that's something else that, as far as the crew is concerned, John hopes will be seen as beside the point. He hasn't moved far from the boats, though that's nothing too far out of the ordinary; Flint is more likely to assist in the physical tasks involved with sailing and transporting a crew of this size than some captains may be, but his choosing to remain a bit more remote this time is certainly nothing worthy of comment. Nothing that would be worthy of comment, if one hadn't been present in Flint's cabin for the past few days - if one didn't already have their suspicions.

"You all right?" he says, quietly, once he's close enough - close enough that Flint will hear him, but nobody else will. 

"I'd like us to be underway sometime before next week," Flint says. 

"As would I, but that isn't what I asked." Flint gives him a look, which John ignores; it's a fair question. "They've been left at their leisure all week. You know it's going to take some time for them to - " 

"To remember that when their captain gives an order, they need to obey it?" 

John glances sidelong at him; Flint's stood ramrod-straight, hands behind his back, his gaze pointedly forward - the very picture of an untouchable, uncompromising pirate king, and John more than half wants to reach out and touch him anyway, just to prove he can. "Well, I'm not sure I'd put it quite like that, but essentially, yes." 

Flint huffs out a breath. "Then perhaps I should remind them." 

John frowns at him, though Flint isn't looking to see it. "You realize they're not listening to me, either, don't you?" he says. "This isn't personal." 

"Isn't it?" Flint says, and John's - not entirely sure he can argue with him, now that he thinks about it. No matter what the men might be saying, what exactly Howell had meant when he'd said they were starting to talk, he and Flint have been at the very least notably absent from the crew's daily life. "We've allowed ourselves to neglect our duties. It shouldn't surprise us they feel entitled to neglect their own." 

"Well I'm not sure neglect is really the word for it," he says, and he doesn't look, but he can feel Flint's gaze turn toward him. He leans his weight back against a longboat, folds his arms across his chest. "You heard Howell - you're not the only one who's been ill, and those who haven't been sick have been largely drunk. Most of them are still getting their strength back. And see, they've taken down - well. Almost two of the tents. Their progress may be slow, but it is still progress." 

He's hoping for a raised eyebrow, perhaps a smile, he doesn't know, something - anything, some sort of indication that while Flint might be playing the part of the ship's captain, the man who'd slept in John's arms, who'd stood with him beneath the stars, is still in there somewhere - something to say that they're still in this together, no matter how uncharitable Flint might be feeling. Instead, Flint sighs, short and irritated, and John shouldn't - he knows he should expect this by now, he shouldn't be disappointed - but. "Every hour we stand on this beach we're an hour closer to losing our grip on Nassau for good. If you wish to argue semantics, Mister Silver, I must ask we do it some other time - " 

"I wish you were a little more patient," John says; he keeps his voice low, not wanting to be overheard, but Flint's eyes snap to his as though he'd shouted. It's a struggle, suddenly, to control his breathing - the fight against the welling heat in his chest that much harder for arriving unexpected. "I understand that time is against us here, but the last thing you need is to drive the men from our side. Send them sneaking off the ship and into town when you're not looking, ready to turn away any man who might've been willing to fight for our cause. We could yell at them, threaten them, force them to obey, and we might reach Nassau an hour or two sooner - but I think that hour or two is far from worth the risk." He forces himself to smile. "Don't worry. They're not going to have the damn war without you." 

It takes a moment; John isn't sure Flint's going to respond at all. "They fucking did last time," he says eventually, though, and his voice is rough, but when John looks over there's just a hint of humor on his face, at the corners of his eyes. "You saw how that turned out. Can you blame me for hoping to prevent them from making the same mistake again?" 

"Because anyone who goes into battle without you is certainly making a mistake," he says, and Flint shrugs - and John can't help it, he thinks, if his smile grows less forced the longer he looks at Flint. He's just grown so used to being around him. "There's no need to rush. Nassau will wait another few hours." 

"Perhaps." Flint meets his gaze, finally, and John has to work hard to stop himself from reaching for him. It seems such a natural response, the hint of a question in Flint's eyes practically inviting the contact, and he shouldn't - knows he shouldn't allow himself even the slightest indulgence, but he leans toward Flint anyway, just a little, just until he sees the warmth starting to creep around the edges of Flint's mouth. "Be sure we replenish our stores of water before we depart," he says. "When we reach the island I intend to anchor offshore, allow us to restock at our leisure, but I don't want to rely on having the opportunity." 

John blinks at him. Flint's almost smiling, but he sounds entirely serious, and John doesn't - "I thought you wanted us off the beach? Getting the barrels up from the hold and across the bay, filling them, transporting them back - it'll take hours." 

"There's no need to rush," Flint says, perfectly innocent, and John just barely manages to keep himself from laughing. 

"It's true, what they say. You are a damn tyrant." 

"Then perhaps I should retire to my castle like a proper monarch and leave you peasants to your duties." 

He doesn't stop himself laughing, this time - doesn't even bother trying. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he says, soft, and it's not what he'd meant to say, but it's the truth. He'd missed this part of Flint, this particular rhythm they sometimes found together. 

"I haven't had a chance to thank you for that," Flint says, equally soft. 

"It's not me you should thank. Howell - " 

"Howell isn't the one who stayed," Flint says, and, well. Fair enough. 

John isn't sure how to answer him; it feels odd accepting Flint's gratitude, like caring for him had been a favor, something that John had done out of some sense of duty - and perhaps it had been, in a way, but not in the way he suspects Flint means it. "I couldn't have left you," he says finally; it's not what he wants to say, but it's as close as he feels comfortable getting right now, the men barely out of earshot. He lets himself inch closer, shifting toward Flint just until the side of his hand brushes against Flint's long coat, until Flint notices the movement - and that's not quite what he wants to do, either, but he can feel Flint start to relax anyway, a bit of the stiffness in his shoulders slipping away - it'll have to do for now. 

He forces in a breath. "I should go and see to your water," he says - half because if they don't get started they'll never make it off the beach, and half because if he doesn't move away from Flint now he doubts he ever will. It's too comfortable, being near him - a bit too simple to settle back into the warmth they'd shared recently, and he hates that it's something he's got to be cautious of - but. He waits for Flint's nod, then heads off down the beach, toward the far end of the camp and the spring where the men have been drawing fresh water. They won't be happy to hear of their captain's request; John assumes it'll be best to inform the majority of them while they're as far away from the rest of the camp as possible. 

*

The water, as John had assumed, does take hours; the men are considerably less than pleased with the additional labor, and between their mostly good-natured resistance and the sheer scope of the task, he finds his attention entirely occupied right up until they're ready to set sail. Even once they're underway, he can't find a moment to get Flint alone - and he shouldn't be looking for one, but he is well past the point of lending that thought any more time than it takes to acknowledge it. He manages, well enough; there's certainly plenty of things to busy himself with, and when night falls he tucks himself into his hammock alongside his men, closes his eyes to wait for sleep. 

It doesn't come. The steady, rhythmic sounds of the ship, the men around him, the rough cloth of his hammock - it's all familiar, but also somehow wrong, setting off the crawling and completely irrational sense in his gut that something isn't as it should be. He has, he tells himself sternly, spent uncountably more nights in this hammock than he's spent in the captain's cabin, Flint's head a solid, welcome weight on his shoulder; he only does himself a disservice by allowing himself to remember how much more right that had felt than this. His temporary discomfort, he knows, is necessary - he's even privately a bit thankful for it, that in this particular matter necessity had intervened, had forced their separation and spared them having to discuss it. He knows being apart from Flint will remain the rule rather than the exception, regardless of what his feelings on the subject might be - or Flint's, for that matter. He's known he'll have to come to terms with that for a while now. He's sure they both have. 

But when he looks, he can see a light still on in Flint's cabin, a faint glow coming from beneath the door - so.

He knows he shouldn't - he should be fighting this habit, not indulging it - but he lets himself slip from his hammock, lets his steps carry him across the deck to Flint's door. Flint is, as John had assumed, awake; he's sat at his desk, quill in hand, and he looks up as John comes in, smiles almost as if he'd expected this. For a few seconds, all John can do is look at him - it's like all at once all the air's been drawn from John's lungs, the ship gone silent around them, the world shrunk down to just this tiny pocket of quiet. God, he cannot miss this so much, not already. He takes a step toward Flint, another, and Flint rises to greet him. 

It's so easy, now, to be near him - feels natural and normal and right to step into his arms, tuck in close against his broad chest, seek the warmth of his body. The kiss feels natural, too, Flint leaning down to meet him like it's a foregone conclusion that he'll be there, no discussion or confirmation necessary. "Christ, I can't believe I've gone all day and most of the night without kissing you," John says, when they finally part, and he feels Flint smile against his lips. 

"We'll have to get used to going a lot longer than that." 

John makes a face. "Must you remind me?" he says, and Flint laughs, kisses him again - slower, softer, one hand settling into the small of John's back. "Turn the ship around," John says, when he can. "I've changed my mind. Don't want to go to war. Fuck Nassau. I want to stay here with you." 

"I'm sorry, I didn't think you wanted to go to war in the first place. My mistake." 

"Mm. Who's arguing semantics now?" He nudges Flint back until he's half sat on the edge of the desk, leans up against him, Flint's hands falling to his hips. The next kiss is slower, more serious. They're both breathing hard by the time they part, and John lets himself settle closer, his forehead pressed against Flint's. "I wish we weren't on our way to that fucking island," he whispers, nipping gently at Flint's mouth as Flint's fingers trace small idle circles along his waist, the touch maddeningly light through his shirt. "I wish we had all night to just - " 

"Stop talking," Flint says, and John moans into his mouth, just to feel the huffed laugh Flint lets out in return. 

There's a warmth building low and steady in him, spreading outward from Flint's hands, sparking bright along the line of their bodies where they're touching, and fuck, he thinks - they've spent hours, days in each other's company over the past week, but it feels like it's been ages since they've touched each other like this. Like it's been fucking years. He moans again - unplanned this time - and feels Flint's grip tighten on his waist. "God, I missed this," he says, the next time he gets the chance, slinging an arm around Flint's neck as Flint mouths down the long line of his throat. "I missed you. All those nights I spent in your bed, and we couldn't even enjoy it." 

"And still you're wasting time." He lays a long, sucking kiss on John's collarbone, and John laughs, arches into it - figures he can be forgiven if the laugh turns into more of a gasp, as Flint's teeth scrape against his skin. "We shouldn't be doing this at all. If the men saw you - " 

"To hell with the men." John runs a hand over the back of Flint's head, keeping him close, lets out a soft breath as Flint's teeth on his skin are replaced by his tongue. "I don't care what they see. I don't care what they think. I want this more." 

Flint stops, pulls back enough to look him in the eye; John is expecting him to ask why, expecting some form of protest, some attempt to frighten him away. Instead, Flint smiles. Small, tentative, barely there until John returns it, until he lets his hand slip around to curve against the side of Flint's face. There's a tightness in the air between them, a humming tension that John doesn't quite recognize, that has him tipping his head questioningly; "I don't know what to say," Flint murmurs in response, turning into John's palm until his breath ghosts over John's skin. "You don't know what it means to me, that you - did what you did, this past week. I don't know how to repay you for that." 

"You can start by letting go of the idea that you should." He leans up, presses a gentle kiss to Flint's mouth. "There was no sacrifice involved in staying with you. I wanted to do it, I couldn't have left you in pain like that, you must know that by now." The question is in Flint's eyes, though - stays, even after John kisses him again, and he sighs, leans back in to press his forehead to Flint's. "James, I - " 

A knock at the door sends Flint slipping out from under him, and John bites down hard on his own lip to keep himself from protesting - what he wouldn't give for these fucking fools to gain a sense of _timing_. "Captain?" It's DeGroot - Flint rolls his eyes skyward, mouths _sorry_ in John's direction. 

"Yes?" 

"Mr. Davies just informed me he's sighted land. We should reach the anchorage by sunrise." 

"Thank you," Flint says; he flashes John a regretful smile as DeGroot's steps fade beyond the cabin door. "Duty calls, I'm afraid." 

"It seems to me duty could have waited until sunrise," John says, but it's just grumbling; they've both got things to take care of before the ship makes landfall, their own last-minute checks and preparations to attend to, and John gathers himself, prepares to go.

Flint stops him, though; steps in close again, his hands warm on John's hips, even if it's only for a moment. "We'll continue this later?" he says, his voice low and almost tentative, like he thinks John might tell him no, that having been interrupted he'd rather forget the whole thing. 

"Perhaps." John says - he can't back his words up, though, can't stop the smile from spreading across his face, can't stop himself from leaning in to kiss Flint, deep and slow and easy. "Perhaps after England's been defeated." 

"The Spaniards can wait their fucking turn." One last kiss, and John feels Flint's hands fall from his sides, the rush of cooler air at his front as Flint steps away. "I'll send for Billy as soon as we arrive. I'm sure we're both eager to hear whatever it is he has to say." 

John is quite certain he isn't anywhere near as eager as Flint might be, but the point doesn't seem worth arguing. "Until Mr. Bones' return, then," he says, and lets Flint's answering smile warm him as he goes. 

*

Billy's own departure from Flint's cabin a few hours later leaves behind an echoing silence and an entirely different sort of warmth. John doesn't have to ask to know that Flint is furious. It ripples in the air around him, Flint himself a patch of eerie dead calm in the center, the last sign of something massive gliding just below the surface and John - thinks he should know, he should understand Flint's anger, where it's coming from, but he doesn't have the slightest idea. He can't even begin to guess. "My," he says, and his voice feels raw and strange in his throat, like it might belong to someone else now. "It seems we have missed some - rather striking developments." 

Flint stays quiet, sat back in his chair, one hand curled over his mouth and his eyes hot and distant. He's said barely twenty words since Billy had come on board, ducked through the door and offered them a brief update on the situation, and most of those in the few moments just after Billy's arrival. John can't blame him. He's a bit dumbstruck himself. He can't imagine what Flint is thinking. 

"Long John Silver," he says again - can't help smiling again, either - it sounds less incredulous than it had the first time, when he'd repeated it back to Billy. "It does have quite the ring to it." 

"He could've asked." 

"You know, I'm not entirely certain passively awaiting our return was an option."

Flint's eyes flick up to meet John's. "I left him here to rescue Charles Vane," he says. "And this is what he comes to me with." 

"You left him here to manage the street," John says. "You left him here to kindle the fire we intend to start, and perhaps he hasn't gone about it in exactly the way you meant him to, but - " 

"It's a bad plan." 

John - blinks. "What's the alternative?" he says, perhaps a bit stupidly. 

"Does my not having one make it a better plan?" 

"No, but - " John takes a breath. "You've - this is a way forward, if not the best way forward, then at the very least one of the better options we've got, given the circumstances. You've got to see that, I know you see - " 

"Those men were pledged to my service," Flint says, and his voice is sharp - sharp, but with a coarseness to the edge, some underlying flaw that prevents it from cutting as intended. "Not - " 

"If you're upset they're rallying under my name and not yours, I can assure you - " 

"He shouldn't have involved you without your permission." 

"My permission," John says, "or yours? Because frankly, I don't have a problem with it, and I'm not sure I understand why you do, either." 

Flint huffs out a short, unamused laugh, looks away. John takes a careful breath. Perhaps, he thinks, a different strategy is in order. 

"Talk to me," he says, leaning forward, elbow on his good knee. "Tell me what you're thinking." Flint stays quiet, which isn't exactly the response John had been looking for - he waits, but Flint doesn't meet his gaze again, doesn't offer anything further, and after a moment John sighs. "I miss you," he says, soft - it gets Flint's attention, at least. "Where were we last night? I know you were with me then, and now you're not. Where have you gone?" 

"Being the face of something like this is very different than you think it is," Flint says, and for fuck's sake, John thinks, he cannot believe this man sometimes - 

"What harm is there to it? So he uses my name, makes up a story or two. Unless you've changed your mind, we were all in agreement - it's best if I don't even leave the ship this time. For the most part, I stay right here and keep doing exactly what I was going to do anyway. Perhaps every now and then we give Billy something to embellish for the street. Your cause grows stronger, and at practically no cost to us - " 

"You don't understand the cost." Flint's eyes are hot and hard and John wants to tell him he's wrong, wants to tell Flint he understands perfectly well - as usual, knows far more than Flint thinks he does, and he is so, so tired of being underestimated. "You're not ready for this. The things you've done. The things you've had to do. They'll be only the beginning." 

"I thought they were what you wanted from me," John says. 

"They're not what I want for you." 

"And perhaps that isn't your decision any more." Flint's eyes widen, just a bit, and for a second John feels guilty - but only for a second. 

Flint looks away, his mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. "You should go."

"You're going to shut me out over this?" John says - there doesn't seem to be much point in questioning it, but he can't help trying. "Because I disagree with you, when - I hate to remind you, but - we have no choice but to go against your wishes? You're going to tell me to leave - " 

"You were never invited to stay," Flint says, and John shuts up; he's known it's coming, he's been waiting for it, it just - feels sharper than he's used to, this time. He should've known better. He can't afford to think that things might be different between them, that Flint might be - of course he wasn't any different. Why the fuck would he be? Their time together in this cabin, the things they'd gone through together might have meant something to John, but he knows well enough by now he can't expect the same to be true for Flint. At least, he fucking well should. 

But - "I have business to attend to," Flint adds, after a breath - and there's something different in his voice now, a counterpoint to the harsh tone he'd spoken with before. "Rogers' men have a tight hold on the island's interior. It's best if I go alone." 

Part of John still wants to fight him on it; argue the point just for the sake of arguing it, just to see what else he might be able to get Flint to admit. But another part of him, the larger part, knows Flint hadn't needed to give even that much; he's certainly never seemed to have a problem shutting John out without a word of explanation, and he thinks perhaps Flint had at least attempted to offer one this time as an olive branch of sorts, something to indicate John's exclusion might be more of a temporary condition than it's usually meant to be. So he ignores the urge - doesn't question Flint's resistance or his sudden but altogether predictable rejection. John gets himself up instead, thumps quietly toward the cabin door, steps through it without another word from either of them. Flint will come around, or he won't - and John, just now, doesn't see much value in time wasted trying to persuade him. For once, their course lies completely out of Flint's hands. 

*

Flint doesn't emerge from his cabin until nightfall, closing the door carefully behind himself and slipping across the deck quietly, head down, like he doesn't want to be noticed. For the most part, he seems to be successful; the men pay him little mind, being far more interested in preparing for the shore party's return through drink than in anything their captain might be doing. But as far as John's concerned, Flint's efforts are futile. It feels odd to admit even to himself that he's been waiting, but - he's been waiting. He catches up to Flint at the rail, where he's stopped to talk to DeGroot - who shifts away almost nervously at John's approach, and there's something there John should address, but it'll have to wait. Flint is looking at him sidelong and silent and John - doesn't know what to say. He still doesn't feel he should apologize, but he doesn't want to leave things how they'd left them, either. 

"I'm not entirely certain you going out there alone is the best idea," he settles on; "Especially if the interior is as overrun as you say." 

"Well, now that we've found a more recognizable figure to rally behind, I'm not entirely certain it matters." 

"It matters to me," John says - it comes out a bit sharp, a bit loud, but - honestly. "What a ridiculous fucking thing to say. You may think your purpose here has been served, that your role has been played out, but you're wrong."

Flint laughs softly. "Am I? You offered no disagreement earlier." 

"Well, I'm offering it now," John says, and Flint looks away. "This isn't about the fucking war, James. You know that." 

For a moment, Flint is quiet. John wonders if this is how it ends - their physical forms side by side at the rail, but their interests slipping silently past each other, too divergent to ever truly meet - tries not to notice how even the idea closes tight and unbearable around his throat. He wonders how he could have been so entirely fucking wrong, to think they had ever been aligned. "This is something I should do alone," Flint says, eventually. "I'll be alright." 

There's a familiar note to his voice, something flat, hollow. He's lying. Part of it, or all of it - John isn't sure - and he can't help thinking, he should be sure. He should be able to tell. A few hours ago, maybe he could have. He takes a breath. "Just - tell me you'll come back," he says - doesn't realize until he hears it that he's half afraid Flint won't. 

Flint turns to him. Looks at him, carefully, and John holds his gaze - resists the urge to speak, to push, ask him to confirm it - insincerity, John knows, will do nothing to ease the creeping unease in his chest, no matter how well-intentioned it might be. Flint takes a breath as if to speak, but lets it out again, wordless. He sets a hand on the rail, leans his weight against it - pauses, and John half wonders if he's supposed to protest, if Flint is waiting for him to - apparently not, though; between one heartbeat and the next Flint is over the side, the ropes swaying gently to mark his passing, a gentle thump of boots against wood announcing his arrival on the launch below. John watches as it cuts through the water toward the beach, his eyes on Flint's broad back, the firm line of his shoulders, until the night closes around him. There's nothing left to see; even the boat's wake has disappeared, indistinguishable from the motion of the sea. John casts one last glance toward the beach, and turns his back.

*

His resolve doesn't last. It never does.

Once he's alone again, across the dunes, the sounds of the ocean begin to fade out - the waves breaking replaced by the harsh deep breaths of his horse, the scrape of the launch against the sand drowned out by hoofbeats. Behind him, back on board the ship, the men will still be celebrating; they'd all been glad to see Billy again, and willowy little Ben Gunn too, and part of John still half thinks he should turn around, he should turn back toward the sea, he should rejoin them - but the rest of him, most of him, knows it's an idle thought. Nothing he's got any intention of entertaining, not even for a moment.

He's headed inland. He's going after Flint. 

He's never been there - the Barlow house - though he's confident in his ability to find it based on Billy's vague description. Perhaps too confident, he can't help thinking, struggling to pick out lights in the treeline past the fields, wondering which one, which one - but no, he's not far enough yet, he knows he's not, and he leans closer to his horse's neck, urges her onward as her mane lashes at his face. He'll know the house when he sees it. Flint is there. He'll know. 

( _Long John Silver,_ John had repeated into the silence following Billy's departure from the cabin, and Flint had said _he could have asked,_ and fuck, John thinks, fuck, if he'd been too busy admiring the ring to it to even hear him - ) 

He isn't expected. He hadn't been invited - but Flint hadn't told him to stay away, either, which John knows well enough by now he can sometimes treat as an invitation, if he's careful. He fights against it as he rides, the lingering doubt that he'll be welcomed, that he'll even be able to find Flint - but he has to be there, at that house. He won't be returning to the ship - that had been clear enough, once John had given it some thought. And there's nowhere else left for him to go. Were it any other night, it might not matter; he might leave Flint to his business, allow him as usual to set the terms for how this thing operates, take him at his word and let him be. 

But tonight - tonight, he thinks, perhaps the terms can be changed. The rules bent. Just enough that he can see his way clear to not leaving Flint alone. Not now. Not at that house. 

John can feel the horse gaining speed as her footing improves, the track hardening as they get farther from the coast. His leg aches, his thighs burning with the effort of holding himself on - he hadn't wanted the added complications of a cart, which in hindsight might have been a poor decision, though going without one is certainly still faster. It can't be too much farther. The horse stumbles, blows out an enormous breath as she regains her balance, as John's muscles scream in protest - and he tries to focus on that, on the pain in his hips, and not on what he might be on his way to find. 

Flint will be fine. He has to be fine. He'd said he'd be all right - and he wouldn't lie about that - would he? Not now - not after the things that had passed between them in Flint's cabin, in his bed. The ship, the crew, the fucking war - anything else. But Flint wouldn't be dishonest with John about his safety. He can't bring himself to believe Flint might. 

( _Those men were pledged to my service,_ Flint had said, and John had said _if you're upset they're rallying under my name and not yours,_ he'd come back at Flint, he'd missed the raw edges under his words entirely, so blindly sure that they'd finished with this, with getting this so wrong - ) 

The house looms up on his left - a long path, a low porch, lanterns all around, and even if Billy's description had been significantly less accurate he'd know, it feels _right_ \- and he pulls the horse up, hard. 

Three shallow steps lead from the dirt walkway up onto the porch. Inside, what John can see of the house is well-lit, but entirely still; the room blazes with lanterns and candles, light reaching even the very farthest corners, but no sound comes from inside, no motion. Flint's jacket hangs over the back of the chair nearest the door, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen. John reaches for the doorknob - stops himself halfway, though, lets his hand fall back to his side. There's a shadow in the hall - Flint. 

( _He shouldn't have involved you without your permission,_ he'd said, and John had said, _My permission, or yours?_ )

He's a spot of dark as he comes into the room, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. There's a jug that John assumes holds rum dangling from one of Flint's hands, and his movements are slow, but they're steady; he makes his way around the room as John watches, pausing here and there to run a hand along the back of a chair, touch a dust-shrouded picture frame, and John - isn't sure what to do. He isn't sure what to think. He'd expected - he doesn't know what he'd expected. But not this. The house bright, looking almost cheerful. Flint calm, quiet. It's possible, he thinks - it's possible he'd been wrong. That his presence isn't necessary - might, in fact, be unwelcome. 

He isn't sure he should see this. He isn't sure Flint would want him to see this. He's aware he's intruding - he'd known that when he'd set off. He'd just - he'd thought he'd had reason.

Flint comes to the entrance to the kitchen, though, takes a long pull off his jug before setting it down. His hand comes up to rest on one of the rough wooden posts forming the doorway, and for a moment, he just - stops. His back to John, framed by the house's exposed bones, he stands motionless, and John - he should leave. He needs to leave. Whatever Flint's come here to see, whatever he's come to remember - John should leave him to it. He rocks his weight slowly back, away from the door, prepares himself to land the first step lightly, spare Flint even the knowledge he'd been seen. 

But before he can turn away, Flint shifts - his head falls forward, his body curving in on itself - his shoulders heave unmistakably, and something twists in John's chest and before he can stop himself he's reaching for the doorknob. 

"James." 

For a moment, they just - look at each other. Flint's face is bare, unguarded. He doesn't seem angry that John is here - but he doesn't seem to have expected it, either. John takes a hesitant step forward, and Flint doesn't try to stop him. He's half turned toward John, watching him over his shoulder still - like he's afraid if he moves any farther he might break the spell, like John might vanish back into the night. 

John clears his throat. "May I come in?" he says, even though it's perhaps a bit late for that. Flint doesn't answer. His eyes follow John's hand as John reaches behind himself, swings the door closed. "I think I understand," he says - his voice is low but in this room it carries, echoes, becomes louder and larger than he feels it should be. "I'm sorry I couldn't hear you before. And believe me, I'm aware that doesn't lend much credibility toward the idea that I do now. But I think I understand what you were trying to say. And you're right." Flint turns to face him; John takes a careful step toward him, another. "You're more right than I think you even know. I'm not ready for this. I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing, I don't know how to navigate this - couldn't find my way through it alone if I tried. This - this war, this persona I'll have to adopt - it could take me from you, if I let it. It could lead me places you can't follow, and I don't want that, and I don't know how to prevent it. I do need you. I value your thoughts and your opinions above anyone else's, including my own, and I - "

"Stop."

John waits, but Flint doesn't continue - stares at him instead, questioning, almost unseeing, and John takes a breath, lets his hands fall to his sides. "None of this," he says - "the power, the respect, the notoriety, the fucking fame - none of it means anything without you by my side. You are my partner. That's more important to me than any part of this war could ever be. I'm sorry I ever gave you cause to think differently."

Flint takes a step toward him. Another. John holds his ground, holds Flint's gaze. Reaches out, once Flint is close enough, fingers slipping light along Flint's arm toward his wrist - has to look to see where he's touching him, and when he looks back up, he sees Flint's gaze drawn there as well, to John's hand on his skin.

"James," he whispers. "Come here." 

The kiss is slow, gentle. Almost delicate. His free hand coming up to press against Flint's cheek. Rum on Flint's breath, dark and spicy. "I couldn't leave you," he says against Flint's mouth. "I couldn't leave you here alone." 

"Someday you'll have to." 

"Not now." Flint's breath on his lips, in his lungs. "Not tonight." Flint's fingers clench tighter around his own, and John takes his mouth again - crowds up against him, nudges at him until Flint sighs and relaxes into it, until he shifts his weight and Flint shifts with him, until he's soft and pliable under John's hands. "Time to rest, darling," he says, quiet, when he thinks Flint is ready. "Take us there." 

Flint does. Down the hall, a room with a four-posted bed. He hesitates at the door, and John leans into him, kisses him firm and patient and unyielding, kisses him until he softens again, leads them inside. This room is as brightly lit as the rest of the house - perhaps more so, candles crowded on the windowsill, on the table beside the bed, wax spilling onto the floor. They leave the door open. It comes as a surprise to John, but he knows better by now than to comment. Perhaps there's just nothing left for Flint to close out. 

John stops Flint beside the bed, one hand curved around the back of his neck, the other pressed broad and flat against Flint's chest. He can feel Flint's heartbeat through the thin linen of his shirt. "Look at me," he says, and Flint does - easily, immediately, and it's obvious, it's written all over his face. John smiles, leans in to brush a kiss against his lips. "Don't be afraid," he whispers, into the warm air near Flint's mouth - because that's what this is, he knows now - he just wishes it hadn't taken him so long to recognize it, to figure out what to do. There's no telling how much time they've wasted. "It's all right. I won't let you fall. Tell me." 

Flint takes a breath, lets it out slowly. His fingers tremble where they rest low on John's hips, and John eases closer to him, settling against the curve of his body, waiting for him to go still - waiting for him to come to it on his own. 

"I love you," Flint says, finally, and John smiles. 

"And I you." 

He's smooth and solid and so, so warm under John's hands, under his lips as they kiss, as John slips his fingers under the hem of his shirt. They undress each other gently, their movements unhurried; Flint presses his thumbs to the hollows of John's hips, kisses him slow and deep and wet, and John arches lazily, aimlessly into his touch. For once, they share no sense of urgency, no instinct toward haste. For once, they have all the time in the world. 

John turns Flint, eases him down to the bed, settles in beside him - lets himself feel the rush that runs through his body as Flint shifts over, gives him just enough room. They curl together easily, Flint's head on John's shoulder, his arm slung low around John's waist, and John almost can't breathe around how simple it feels, how right - almost doesn't want to. "Sleep, love," he says, and Flint lets out a long sigh, relaxes against him. He presses a kiss to the top of Flint's head, lets himself linger there, breathing him in as Flint's lips brush his collarbone. He'll deal with the candles once Flint's asleep - he can't bear to let him go just yet. 

*

In the morning, John wakes to find Flint watching him. Head propped on one hand, his knee still hooked over John's thigh, eyes warm and open and calm. "Good morning," John says. His voice cracks, still rough from sleep, and Flint smiles. 

"Good morning." There's a tentative note to the kiss Flint presses to his lips, just the slightest hesitance, but John reaches for Flint and it melts away under his hands, disappears as Flint settles down onto the pillow next to him, closer. John rolls to face him, one hand sliding down Flint's arm, skipping to his waist to draw him in as Flint drops light kisses on the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the point of his chin through his beard. John darts in, manages to land one on Flint's nose - he'd been aiming for his cheek, but Flint laughs quietly and the next kiss falls on John's mouth, so. 

"I love you," he whispers, when Flint next pulls away. It feels like the time. "I wasn't - sure I made that clear enough. Last night. I - " 

"I got the idea," Flint says, but there's a softness to his smile, a steady validation humming behind his words. John curves a hand around the back of his neck, thumb stroking through the short hairs there, tendrils of warmth starting to curl low in his belly as Flint's eyes slip closed, lips parting - and he can't help leaning in to kiss him, can't stop himself - but there's no reason to, now. Flint will welcome it - Flint loves him. John knows he will. 

He still hasn't grown used to kissing Flint, still hopes he never will - doubts he ever could, with each one so different, promising so much more to discover. Flint is nearly always gentle with him, but this kiss is tender, gentle in a way that feels entirely new - and perhaps it's just that everything will seem new, now, that everything will be different, but - John isn't sure. He's never been in love before. He can't stop thinking it. 

Flint shifts, moving over him, his hands on the pillow on either side of John's head, and John sighs into his mouth, arches up against his weight - spreads his legs, unthinking, lets Flint settle his hips between them - and fuck, he feels so _good,_ hot and heavy and strong, and John groans into his mouth, feels Flint shiver at the sound. 

"May I?" Flint says. His voice is ragged, one hand trailing down the center of John's chest, and John lifts himself up, pushes until he can get at Flint's mouth. 

"Please," he says, into the kiss, and Flint's fingers spread against his skin - remain there, though, rather than moving any lower, and John huffs impatiently, nips his lip. "James," he says, insistent - doesn't miss the quick twitch of Flint's fingers against his belly, the way his breath stalls in his throat. "I want you. Touch me." 

Before, when they've fucked, it's been quick; hurried, tense, the fear of being found out hastening things, dampening them. But now, that fear is gone. Now, John isn't certain he could even call this fucking. Flint touches him slowly - not hesitantly, but reverently, like John is something sacred, something to be treasured. _Yes,_ he whispers, as Flint traces patterns across his skin, fingers following invisible lines along the peaks and valleys of John's hips. _Yes,_ as Flint trails kisses along his shoulder, one hand slipping down between John's legs - as Flint slides into him, slick and solid and _there_. _Yes,_ as Flint shudders against him, gasping into the hollow of his throat, his leg wound tight around Flint's thighs - as Flint kisses his mouth, coaxes him through it, swallowing John's cries like they're water and he's dying of thirst. 

It's nothing like before, and the only thing John is certain of is that it won't ever be again. 

John is expecting the part that comes after, this time - knows it's going to happen before it does, before Flint sighs and folds against him, his head tucked under John's chin, trembling fingers coming up to rest hesitantly on John's chest. He turns to face Flint, curling around him, getting an arm around his shoulders - and it feels different this time, none of the desperation or fear he'd felt that day in Flint's tent, back on the island - he kisses Flint's forehead, his hair, draws him in, runs his hand slowly down Flint's back. "It's all right," he whispers, low and soothing as Flint crowds against him, trying to get closer. "It's all right, love, I understand. I think I understand. You're just a bit overwhelmed right now, aren't you? I know. That was a lot. That was a lot all at once, I know. But it's fine. Everything's fine, darling. You can relax. You're safe. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." 

Eventually - John isn't sure how long it takes; he's not interested in keeping track - eventually, Flint calms against him, settles, his sharp rapid breaths coming slower, the tension in his shoulders easing away. "James?" he says, and Flint lifts his head, lets John kiss him. 

"I love you," John says - or perhaps Flint does - their mouths move together, and then they're both laughing, Flint pulling away just enough to lay his head on the pillow next to John's. He cups a hand against Flint's cheek, smiles softly as Flint turns to press a kiss against his thumb. "God. Do you think they'd notice if we never went back?" 

"Probably." Flint shifts closer, rests his forehead against John's. "I must admit, though, the thought is tempting." 

"We could hide." Flint laughs, and John squeezes his hip, just hard enough to register as a protest. "We could," he insists. "Billy would find someone else to tell tales about, eventually." 

For a moment, Flint is quiet. "He seems to have quite a bit invested in you already," he says, at length.

"I can't help but think he's made the wrong choice," John says - doesn't fully realize until he says it that he believes it. "I don't know how to do this. I'm - I'm not sure I want to, any more." 

"John, if you don't - " 

"No," he says, "I - this is the plan. You're right, we've got too much invested in it already to pursue another path. I'm just - " He shakes his head, and Flint nudges him, kisses his cheek. "Do you remember when you told me you were concerned that you and I might get in the way of the war? I'm - to be honest, I'm. A bit concerned this war might get in the way of you and I." 

"Do you think it will?" 

John takes a breath, tries not to notice how it shakes, just a little. "I - I don't know. But I don't want it to, and I'm afraid I won't know how to stop it if it does. I'm afraid I won't even see it." Flint pulls back enough to look him in the eye, and for once, John wishes he hadn't - he wants to close his eyes, wants to look away, isn't sure what Flint's reaction will be to him admitting he's afraid, that he's - 

"That responsibility doesn't lie on your shoulders alone," Flint says, though, and - Christ, John thinks, he shouldn't have doubted him. He half suspects he might never have to again. "You're not - neither of us will be alone in this. I'll be at your side." Flint's eyes drop away, but just for an instant; there's something small and unsettled in his gaze when he looks back, but as John watches it fades away, something far sturdier replacing it. "If you'll have me." 

John smiles. "I couldn't do it without you," he says - kisses Flint's forehead, the curve of his cheekbone, his mouth, kisses him until they're both gasping from it. "Of course I'll have you. James, of course I will."

**Author's Note:**

> as usual [jackie](http://twobrokenwyngs.tumblr.com/) was alpha/beta/everything and is entirely responsible for anything that doesn't suck ♥
> 
> you guys....... my god. you guys. i can't begin to explain what this rollercoaster ride has meant to me - what you all mean to me. thank you. from the bottom of my heart. thank you. i hope you had fun. i sure did. ♥


End file.
